stickseller: (e08151)
[personal profile] stickseller
(Howard feels like he’s falling. Deeper and deeper, through time and space with nothing to clutch to no matter how hard he tries to hold on. He falls past events of his life, from his mother kissing him before he was sent to his first year of sponsored boarding school, past shaking his father’s hand after he graduated from MIT. He falls past the discovery of vibranium, past its presentation and past the assassination attempt. He falls past the faces of his friends, of Peggy Carter, of Steve Rogers, of Edwin Jarvis. He reaches for them, begging for them to grab hold of him, to catch him, to save him, but they all just watch on impassively. When he opens his mouth, no words come out, not a single sound slipping past. He’s just falling, and falling, into darkness with no sense of the depth. So he stops trying to claw for help. He closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s filled with a sense of peace. Of relaxation. If this is death, perhaps it’s just better to accept than fight. It may just be easier.

Howard awakes with a gasp, though instead of his lungs filling with air, they fill with water. He looks above himself to light, arms fighting towards it now, but instead of like in his dream, he makes progress. His fingers burst through the surface first, and then his whole body, and he’s choking, coughing, gasping to replenish his lungs with air instead of the water. He looks around, and sees that he’s alone, in a grand hall. He’s in the clothes he remembers falling asleep in, and he swims towards the edge, heavily pulling himself from the water.

The last thing he remembers from the night before is falling asleep on a small bed in his childhood home. It was where he had left after Peggy had told him to leave, and for once he had respected her desires. She had been furious with him, and because of that, he was furious with himself. She was his closest friend, his confidant, and someone to whom he had a deep amount of respect, but he had spoiled that, now. Ruined it , and for what? Maybe they wouldn’t even have found the vial of blood, and he could have just gotten it back when his name was cleared.

If his name was cleared, he supposed he could say now. That might not be likely after all, he would understand if she just stopped the work she had been doing. He had tricked her, after all, even if he had meant that he felt she deserved more than what the SSR was giving her. Maybe he had gone around it the wrong way, but then again, it seemed he did that often. He had a tendency to try to do the right thing, only to have it go terribly, terribly wrong. Adding ruining one of his closest friendships was just another notch on his bedpost.

Right now, though, he wasn’t thinking about that. He was shivering, and alone, and he needed to find out where this was. It didn’t seem like the kind of place he would be brought if they had come into grab him during the night, nor could he see them attempting to drown him. He made his to the door, expecting to find it locked, but instead it opened with ease. His frown deepened then as he stepped out, and called:)

Hello? Is anyone out there?

(of course, he doesn't notice that he's being recorded by a monitor hanging from the wall.)
nascensibility: looks like you're starring in an Albanian remake of the Cosby Show (nice sweater nerd)
[personal profile] nascensibility
I have an important announcement to make - even if you don't respond, I would greatly appreciate it if you would all listen.

[Evelyn appears tired, having suffered a recent sleepless night and three full days of resurrection, an undercurrent of emotional lividity pressing her forward. Her tone is firm and her gaze is just as hard, tempered steel cooling after being held aloft over a blazing fire.]

A similar network statement was made several months ago by one A. J. Crowley, but the dearth of evidence made it difficult for many to accept, myself included. It is with confidence that I can now inform the greater public that Hannibal Lecter is a psychotic serial murderer who cannibalises his victims.

[She is more disappointed in herself, but she won't blame anyone for doubting her. Crowley had to fight to be heard and Evelyn didn't want to believe it until she saw Will bleeding out on the floor, like a broken doll drenched in red, until she had to reach for her own weapon in self-defence. It feels strange now with all the data before her, files and notes and a strain in her voice that threatens to remind her who kept this information from her in the first place.

The broadcast continues.

Up until four days ago it was difficult to acquire substantial evidence on the identity of the man who killed, ate, and mutilated the bodies of Jesse Pinkman, Clarisse La Rue, and Dean Winchester, but I would like to submit my own recent murder at Hannibal Lecter's hands as adequate testimony.

[Evelyn's jaw tightens and she looks out of the camera frame for a moment, swallowing the vivid recollection and the stale, coppery taste of blood. As (purportedly) the first non-anonymous killing, it falls upon her to ensure than the very same does not happen to anyone else.]

Do not trust him, do not engage him, do not encourage his psychiatric practise by participating in therapy with him. He is a dangerous and skilled manipulator, so much so that I once considered him a friend. Please learn from my mistake.

[Evelyn cuts the feed.]
eventheirvoice: (Commanding)
[personal profile] eventheirvoice

When her scaly blue face shows up on the feed, it's clear something's up. Her normal cool, calm demeanor is gone, and her usually perfectly-coiffed hair is sticking out in a few places. She's somewhere outside, having abandoned her room a long time ago. She is livid, and has been for a very long time.

If there's one thing Mystique knows, it's when someone's in her head. And someone's been in her goddamn head since yesterday. A few minutes, she can tolerate. She'll let it go. Maybe snap some necks for it, but she'll move on with her life. But hours upon hours of it? Unrelenting? Nothing but sadness and regret and so many other annoying emotions? Being forced to relive a memory she'd thought been forever buried has definitely done nothing to help her mood, so with this on top, she is not having it.

She breathes hard, teeth bared. ]

I know one of you is in my head. I don't know why, but I'm giving you ten minutes to get out. That should be enough time to give you a head start before I find you.

[ Whoever you are, she will look for you, she will find you, and she will kill you. Figuratively. Literally, if she can get away with it. ]

Your time starts now.

action )
iseethings: (we get to come back)
[personal profile] iseethings
Where’s my son? [ There’s no preamble, because his son was just with him, and now he’s somewhere far from the house they’d barricaded themselves in. ] I’m gonna say this once so you understand, so you know why I’ll take you out, whoever you are. [ Despite his words, his voice is calm, his tone just barely elevated. ]

I don’t know what you did to him or Michonne, but they’re all I’ve got now. You take them away, there’s nothin’ that’s gonna stop me anymore. Nothin’ left. You gave me this device, so you can call me back when you’re ready to talk, and tell me where the hell I am. I’ll give you one chance to make it right.

[ He's pretty confused by how they got a device like this to even work. He also looks pretty beaten up, cuts on his face, still healing from a nasty fight with the Governor, but he'll manage. Carl and Michonne are his biggest concerns right now, then finding the rest of his people. ]
intelligently: (ғᴏʀᴛʏ sᴇᴠᴇɴ)
[personal profile] intelligently
About five months ago I asked about your worlds and how magic was involved. If you weren't here then we can get to that.

( It's all for science!! )

While it gave me something interesting to read it's only half of the story - or theory. Some worlds seem to run predominantly on magic, like here, but there are some worlds where magic doesn't appear to exist. I'm not going to get into a magic versus science debate but I would be interested in knowing the other side of the story.

And, as always, everything is private. Until there's results.
Where are you from?
When are you from?

Are you familiar with magic at home? (Not from stories)
    If yes, is magic a secret or public knowledge?
    If yes, does daily life use magic or science/technology more?

Were the kitchen appliances something you had seen before?
    If no, what would you have used instead?
    Do you consider the appliances advanced, common knowledge, or out-dated?

If someone were to contract an illness would your world be able to provide medicine/a vaccine, instantly cure them or other? (If other please explain)
Has science ever gone too far/wrong?
Obviously if you have other examples you can list them. It would be interesting to see how worlds are different even for people at the same time, and if anything did influence that change. Or if it could be useful here.

And if you did miss the last poll you can always fill that in too.
Where are you from?
When are you from?
Did you already know about:
    Supernatural creatures? ( e.g. nazi vampires )
    Other non-human things? ( e.g. gods )
    Resurrecting the dead?
    Reality altering?
    Alternate/pocket dimensions?

reignbringer: throg-brood; throg-think; throg-listen; throg-what; (this makes my head hurt)
[personal profile] reignbringer
[ hello, eway! were you looking for Thor? because this is certainly his communicator, pointing for some reason at the floor.

there's a glimpse of something in the distance -- a bundle of clothes? -- before the video feed turns off all together.

after a moment, Thor's voice issues from the darkness, unusually hesitant. ]

I appear to be in need of some -- assistance.

((ooc: action is okay too! Thor -- or rather, a tiny cartoon frog that speaks with Thor's voice for completely unknown reasons -- can be found in one of the basement corridors. he picked a fine time to leave Mjolnir and the armor off; the clothing bundle is Asgardian casual fare, cloaks and loose trousers and the like.

eta: time is a wibbly wobbly timey wimey thing, and Thor will be grateful for however many rescues he gets :D and remember those of you who choose to laugh at him :| though I am also totally up for negative CR. ♥))


Jan. 16th, 2015 11:22 am
actualwizard: (Default)
[personal profile] actualwizard
[Billy knew she was gone before he even checked her room. When Kate didn't show up for their daily coffee date and no locator spell could find her he knew. He went straight to her room anyway, needing to see proof for himself. It was empty save for her bow which was sitting in the middle of the floor. Wonderland's way of giving him something of her's, or taunting him. He couldn't decide which.

He pulled out his phone and flipped it on pulling up a video feed. His face appears, sad, and more drawn than it normally is. It's been a long few weeks.]

Kate Bishop has gone home. So for anyone who knew her...yeah. She's gone back to California.

[He opens his mouth to say something else but thinks better if it. Sighing he ends the video. That's all anyone really needs to know. He picks up the bow and heads back to his room. First Tommy, now Kate. He really hopes Teddy isn't next.]
wickedwest: (You'd Think Someone Would Notice That)
[personal profile] wickedwest
Back here again, I see. But it seems like I missed something. Not interested in what it was, of course, so don't bother wasting my time with an explanation.

[A noticeably not green Zelena is on the feed, shrugging as if the leftover fortifications and stuff are no big deal. Which they're not really, not to her, sorry. Maybe if she'd been here for whatever had happened, but she wasn't, and a bunch of stuff happened, like not being green anymore, so that's just way more important.]

I'm sure whatever it was was incredibly trying, especially if that thing attacked again, but I'm far more interested in knowing how much time's passed.

[Because why not ask people instead of just looking for a date somewhere?]

And let me guess, Regina's still here isn't she?

[She hasn't even been back in Wonderland that long and she's already annoyed by the fact that her sister might still be here. Then again, that's probably not much of a surprise.]

Along with the rest of them, of course. Can't imagine they all disappeared as well. Assume I'll know soon enough though.
wordvomit: not joking BYE (mmkay no hard feelings but I hate you)
[personal profile] wordvomit

[In the chill, still of the night, snow falling in flurries that swirl around his lanky frame, the Pie Maker tracks the edges of a large house and clings to the solid source in his moment of weakness. Rumpled and out of sorts, comically large scarf dragging the ground and mismatched galoshes trudging through several inches of slush and ice, Ned's desperation is palpable as his voice cracks on a single word:]


[Periodically he will pause, turn in place, shifting his arms over his chest to keep out the cold as it rattles his chest and squeezes his lungs and each breath curls steamily away into the night air. With growing horror he recognizes the window frames, their monotonous Federal style and trim, and knows they do not belong to apartments in the city where he lives and works.

With substantially greater horror does Ned realize that he is not home anymore, balling up snow with his bare, freezing hands and flinging it at the nearest window, a cry of galvanized agony tearing his throat apart.

The facts were these:

On a cold night in a warm room, Chuck and Ned were nestled in their respective single beds, a truth hanging over the Pie Maker and trying to claw its way out. Lying is not easy but it is often easier, and while the knitting detective, Emerson Cod, had told him to bite his tongue, the truth spilled out like so many tons of water through a sluice in the Stingwell Dam. Unfettered, unhindered, unintentional. With four simple words - I killed your dad - Ned rent apart the trust and faith Chuck had in him, a clamoring din of shouting voices to follow, much of what was actually said lost in translation. Chuck took the elevator and Ned took the stairs, slipping down half of them to catch up.

By the time he got to the bottom of the building, she was gone.

Now Ned has tracked snow into Wonderland's Mansion, feeling a pale shadow of the vaguely dark shadow that he once was, mechanical in his steps and stricken with the notion that his search for Chuck is further postponed by his return to the pocket universe he remembers like a particularly vivid dream. The Pie Maker does not make it to the eighth floor diner, dragging his feet to the first-floor kitchen at three in the morning and losing his snow-damp coat on a chair along the way. His scarf and phone find the floor and his fingers find the handle of the refrigerator, clinging to stainless steel tightly as his shoulders shake.

For a long moment Ned stands paralyzed before jerking the door open and reaching for the butter. Flour, sugar, salt, and ice water follow, and while his movements are deft, practiced, they are stiffened with shock, going through the motions of preparing dough. He makes an excess, the coping mechanism of stress-baking putting a dozen pies into the oven as he draws out the first, apple, and lays it to rest on the table to cool, seating himself at the chair in front of it.

The Pie Maker inhales the smell of home, and feels all the more hollow for it.
eventheirvoice: (Ignoring)
[personal profile] eventheirvoice
[ What's that you may see there? Why, a bored-looking mutant! The communicator is perched on a nightstand and aimed at just the right angle to catch Mystique sitting on her bed in her full lizardy glory. She's not happy, if you must know.

Sure, she's no stranger to waking up in strange places, but after poking around on the network and getting the basic gist of things (i.e., she's screwed), she resigned herself to her fate and went to pick a room. But instead of quiet brooding, her device decided it was time for some amateur video action. How nice!

(She'll hate herself later. She likes to think she's the paragon of knowing technology. It's not supposed to get the best of her.)

So there she sits, observing her hand blandly. For a brief moment, nothing happens. Then a ripple spreads across her skin and it's a human hand. Then it's blue again. Next her arm is human. Blue again. Eventually, she's fully her human doppelganger. It's faint, but there's a small sigh of relief.

What's prison life if you can't do what you're best at?

Mystique lazily switches back to blue normalcy and gazes out of her window. Trapped, hmm? And in a mansion, of all places. She doesn't like trapped, seeing as she's yet to meet a trap she can't get out of. But! Sometimes there's nothing to do but accept the existence of people craftier than her. ]

Hmph. Touché.


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